CHAPTER 1
San Francisco, CA—April 30
Wind whipped the branches overhead, rain pounded the roof of the car, and dark leaves slapped against the windshield. RJ, the little shit, sat in the passenger seat, turned with his back to the door, seatbelt cinched tight, eyes wide. Staring at him. Ben took another swallow of his beer. He already had a buzz so he didn’t really need it, but it was worth the sour taste in his mouth just to watch his kid brother squirm.
His kid brother … the family golden boy, at least as far as their parents were concerned. He used to hold that title. He’d been the one Mom was grooming to be the star, and then along came perfect little Richie, subsequently christened RJ because it sounded better. More in tune with the superstar image dear old Mom wanted the kid to have. Why not? He had everything else. Everything RJ touched turned to gold—including the three Olympic medals he’d won.
A small branch hit the hood of the car and skittered up against the windshield. RJ flinched. “Scared ya, huh, kid?” Laughing, Ben punched it, and the black Dodge Viper leapt forward, fishtailing on the wet asphalt. At least when he boosted a car, he got good wheels.
This baby was fast.
He wrapped his fingers around the gearshift. Really a sweet ride.
“Ben! Look out!” RJ braced his hands on the dash.
Ben snapped his attention back to the road, just in time to see the stricken face of a young woman and the wide, terrified eyes of a little boy. And then the child disappeared beneath the front end of the Viper and the woman rolled across the hood, slammed into the windshield, and flew off to the right, her body twisted, arms and legs flailing like a broken doll.
RJ screamed, and he kept screaming, and that was the last thing Ben heard as he lurched forward in the bed, jerked awake, his heart thundering in his ears.
He sat there in the dark, shivering from the blast of air-conditioning hitting his sweat-soaked body, thoughts scattered, wondering if he’d made any noise, if any of the guys had heard him. He raised his head, realized he was alone in a quiet hotel room.
He wasn’t in Kabul, not down at Spin B.
“Thank God.” He bowed his head, and ran his fingers through hair that had grown well beyond his regulation military cut. He wasn’t in the Middle East; he was in a hotel just north of the airport in San Francisco where he’d grabbed a room after his delayed flight finally got in around three this morning. All of his belongings would soon be headed for storage at Camp Parks—all but what he’d thrown into his duffle for the trip home.
Except, where the hell was home? The US Army had been his home for almost twenty years. He hadn’t communicated with his parents in all that time, hadn’t heard from his brother.
Not that RJ hadn’t made his presence known. Those damned dreams had kept the kid sufficiently involved in Ben’s life ever since the last time they were together.
The night Ben Lowell totally fucked up his life, his brother’s life, and the lives of two innocent victims.
Because of him, a talented young Olympian’s career was destroyed.
Because of him, a young mother and her child had died.
Their blood would forever be on Ben’s hands. Somehow, before the nightmares won, before he took another cowardly way out—a more permanent one—he had to try and make this right. He wasn’t really sure where to start, but sometimes the most obvious steps were the best.
Telling the truth after all these years was going to kill him. But he had to do it, had to admit what a fuckup he’d been. He’d been dying inside for the last twenty years. Looking around the hotel room, listening to his own breath rushing from his lungs, the racing cadence of his heart, he knew he had to find the courage to take that first step, one apology at a time.
* * *
Lola Monroe checked the temperature on the oven, turned it down a notch, and then poured herself a glass of wine. Mandy was due home in a few minutes, so she poured an extra glass of Chardonnay for her baby sister and carried it into the living room, careful not to trip over Rico. Their aging basset hound liked to sleep in major pathways throughout their house. It made it easier for him to keep track of them.
She’d just settled into the rocker by the window when she heard Mandy’s key in the lock. Lola held out the chilled glass as her sister walked through the front door.
“Oh, thank you. You must have heard me wishing for this.” Mandy took the glass, dropped her tote bag on the floor by the sofa, and sat. “I’m beat, but it sure smells good in here.”
“Lasagna. I’d planned to have it ready when Kaz and Jake got home.”
Mandy took a sip. “I thought they’d be here by now.”
“Nope. They’re spending the night at Cassie and Nate Dunagan’s in Sonoma County. I really thought they’d be coming back tonight, but Kaz called and said they wanted to stay over another night. There’s no reason we can’t eat it.”
Slipping her sandals off, Mandy took another sip of her wine and leaned back against the soft cushions. “I was hoping they’d come back. I need to see Kaz to be sure she’s okay. It’s just awful what happened to them. I mean, she said the bullet just grazed him, thank goodness, but … crap, Lola. They both could have died!” She stared into her glass for a moment and then gazed over the rim at Lola.
“I know. I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about what happened. What could have happened.”
“Yeah.” Mandy stared into her glass. “I imagine they need some time together without anything else to worry about. Jake’s got to be feeling pretty guilty over the whole thing.”
“He’s not the only one.” Lola stared into the golden liquid in her glass. “It’s my fault.”
Mandy was across the room and grabbing Lola’s hand before she finished her sentence. “No it’s not. You had no way of knowing Jake didn’t take those horrible nude pictures of Kaz. They were awful. I was as mad at him as you were.”
“Hon, I should have looked closer at those pictures before giving them to Kaz. I had no idea Jake hadn’t taken them, but I should have. They were terrible, and he’s a talented photographer, but all I could think when I saw them was that I didn’t want her to go to that premiere and see them on the walls. If I’d only looked at all of them, I would have known they weren’t his pictures.”
If she hadn’t freaked out and given them to Kaz, none of this would have happened. Not Kaz getting kidnapped or Jake getting shot. None of it. But she’d given Kaz those damned photos, exactly as that psychopath out of Jacob’s past had planned.
Furious, Kaz had gone to the reception where she and Jake were featured—the beautiful model and her sexy photographer and an expensive new line of body jewelry—except Kaz had thrown the envelope filled with disgusting shots in Jake’s face and stalked out of the reception, directly into the waiting arms of a madman.
“But Jake saved her, Lola. Don’t forget that. She’s okay and so is he, and I would guess that if they’ve decided to stay up there for another night in spite of their injuries, it’s because they want to be together. It’s been pretty intense between them, and it could be they just need to explore what they’re feeling. That’s a good thing. Kaz deserves some happiness, don’t you agree?”
Lola raised her head and managed to smile. “Yeah, she does. But ya know what? So do we. There have got to be a couple of decent men left out there.”
Mandy giggled. “Well, if you find one, let me know.”
“There’s always Marcus Reed.” Lola raised an eyebrow. Mandy had been lusting after him since long before they knew Jake, who was Marc’s best friend. She still had a picture of him on the bulletin board in her bedroom, one she’d cut out of People magazine. He’d been named one of the year’s sexiest young millionaires.
Mandy merely shook her head. “Yeah. Right. The drop-dead gorgeous multi-gazillionaire is going to fall for the dorky little barista at the neighborhood coffee shop.”
“Have you ever seen him in person? Kaz says he’s a real sweetheart.”
“I thought I saw him go by the coffee shop on a bicycle one time, but I doubt it was him. This guy was all by himself on an old Schwinn. Not the sort of wheels you’d expect a rich dude to have.”
“Probably not.” Lola stood. “C’mon. Dinner should be ready. We need to keep up our strength in case some good-looking, smart, nice, single guy shows up at the door.”
“Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen.” Laughing, Mandy grabbed her hand and dragged Lola into the kitchen.
“Well, if he does,” Lola said, “As the older and wiser sister, I get first dibs!”
* * *
Ben walked away from his parents’ Marin home, got into the rental car, and drove a couple of blocks to a small cemetery. He’d been here once before, the night before he left for boot camp. It had been right after he was cleared of any charges in that terrible wreck, before RJ had told anyone what really happened.
Another car pulled in behind him and parked near the entrance to the parking area—a dark sedan with two men sitting in the front seat—but other than that, he was alone. He went to the spot he remembered, toward the back of the cemetery where the plots were small and marked with flat headstones, and parked in a shady space beside a redwood tree. He didn’t get out. Instead, he stared blindly at the dashboard.
He couldn’t believe it. RJ had never told the judge the truth. When Ben knocked on the door at his parents’ home, wondering if they still lived there, if they’d even speak to him, his mother had opened the door and greeted him like the prodigal son. He was welcomed home with hugs and questions about where he’d been, why he’d stayed away so long. Then she’d called his father, and the man who never put his sons ahead of his job had rushed home from work to see for himself that his long-lost son had come home.
His parents weren’t the most forgiving sort—the last thing he’d expected was to be welcomed home. But their response when he’d asked about RJ had left him angry and speechless.
They didn’t want to hear his name. His parents had disowned their youngest son; they hadn’t heard from him since the trial ended and he’d been sent away. Not since he’d been found guilty of involuntary manslaughter for killing two people while driving a stolen car … a car Ben had actually stolen; the one he—not RJ—had been driving that night.
His mother had sounded disappointed that the stolen car charges had been dropped. Ben hadn’t known what to say, so once again he’d taken the coward’s way out and kept his mouth shut. In his defense, he had a lot to process. He’d been so certain that RJ, when faced with any kind of jail time, would have told the truth, but he hadn’t. Not one word to anyone, as far as Ben could tell.
No matter how he worked it out in his head, it came out all wrong. Made him an even bigger dick. The kid brother he’d dragged with him, the sixteen-year-old Olympian he’d resented so much, had never fessed up. He’d stuck to that story Ben asked him to tell, that RJ was driving the stolen car because Ben was too drunk to drive. That RJ had been the one to kill that poor woman and her son.
He never said a word. Not to his parents, not to the arresting officer, not to the judge. He’d been sentenced to the California Youth Authority, sent away to what was essentially a prison, even though he was innocent.
RJ had done it to protect Ben. No wonder no one had ever come after him, no one had pulled him out of formation and arrested him for manslaughter.
Because RJ had taken the fall, and he’d never admitted the truth—that Ben was guilty, not him. But why?
That night of the wreck, Ben had been so drunk he’d been heaving his guts out while RJ tried to help the little kid. He remembered that much, but for almost twenty years, he’d tried to forget asking RJ to take the blame and tell the cops he’d been driving. Ben had been so goddamned jealous of RJ, of his fame, of the fact he was their parents’ favorite, that he didn’t care what happened. He’d rationalized it all; told RJ that since he was just sixteen and Ben was an adult and too drunk to get behind the wheel, he could go to prison for a damned long time. As much as he hated himself for doing it, he remembered asking his brother to lie, but he didn’t remember much else after the mother and her child died that night.
He remembered getting arrested. Impossible to forget that. They’d both gotten out when their father had come and posted bail and taken them home, but only RJ had been charged. Ben had enlisted while RJ’s case was still in court. He’d never contacted his parents to find out how it all ended. Over the years, he’d just figured RJ had gotten off. He was a kid. He hadn’t been drinking. Hell, he was a damned Olympian, a media star. Girls asked for his autograph. He had an agent, for fuck’s sake.
All those years, he’d imagined his brother living the highlife, while he slogged away in war zones around the world. They’d never send RJ to prison.
Except they did.
His mother said she was sure he’d gotten out a long time ago, but no, they hadn’t kept in touch. Didn’t know where he was, what he was doing. Didn’t care.
In their eyes he had thrown away a career they’d given him. It was a slap in the face to two parents who’d sacrificed everything for an ungrateful child who hadn’t cared how much his actions humiliated and embarrassed them. They didn’t care that two people were dead. No, they’d been upset because he’d made them look like terrible parents, to have raised such a flawed and thankless son.
No mention of the grueling hours of training RJ had gone through, the lost childhood while he’d spent every free moment with a harsh coach, swimming, perfecting his style, building strength and endurance.
His parents said RJ had failed them.
Even Ben knew it was his parents who had failed their sons. They never should have been parents, but he didn’t tell them that. He didn’t say anything. He’d merely turned away and walked out the front door.
Now, sitting here in the rental car, parked at the cemetery where a mother and her son would rest forever, he realized there was only one thing he could do. He had to find RJ. Find out what happened to him. Find out if he was okay.
He would find a way to make things right.
He gazed across the shadowy expanse of green, at the wilted flowers on a few graves, and knew exactly where the young woman and her child were buried. But just like that other night when he’d come here, he didn’t have the courage to walk across the grass. He was a fucking coward, afraid to stand over her grave and apologize for the terrible thing he’d done.
He’d start with RJ. Once he cleared things with his brother, maybe then he’d be able to somehow beg forgiveness of that poor woman.
* * *
Ben scanned his laptop, but he hadn’t expected this to be so hard. It was after seven, the day just about shot, when he picked up a newspaper and stopped at a cafe in the Tenderloin district for something to eat. No sign of RJ. He’d tried searching under Richard Lowell and RJ Cameron, but found only a small amount of info about his Olympic wins and brief career, a short article about his time at the California Youth Authority for involuntary manslaughter, but no recent word of his brother, not when he got out or anything about him after the trial ended.
As a juvenile, the records had been sealed.
He tried to remember if RJ had any friends, but the only one he recalled was some nerdy twerp named Marc. Marc something. Started with an R …
The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and took his order. He finished the first section of the paper and opened the next, the one with more local news. A photo of a sharp-looking, dark-haired man at some sort of premiere caught his attention. He looked vaguely familiar. Ben glanced at the caption: Marcus Reed. Could this be a grown-up version of Marc? He was introducing some kind of fancy new jewelry business. It had to be the same guy.
Maybe he’d know how to find RJ. Now, if Ben could just find Marcus Reed. He pulled out a twenty and caught the waitress’s attention. “I have to leave. This should cover the burger. Give it to someone who can use a free meal.” Handing her the money, he went in search of Marc.
* * *
It was after nine when Ben pulled up in front of what looked like a converted row house on 23rd Avenue, a few blocks south of Golden Gate Park. Actually, the whole street was lined with similar houses—in all shapes, sizes, and colors—creating a colorful row of seemingly attached yet distinctly separate homes with the garages beneath, living quarters above.
The streetlight was out, which made it feel even darker in the neighborhood than it already was. It was late—too late to be knocking on a stranger’s door, and he knew he should wait until tomorrow, but now that he was so damned close to finding RJ, he couldn’t stop. Not after finally talking Marc into giving him the address, even though this wasn’t RJ’s place.
Marc Reed had been a shock. Ben remembered him as a shy, skinny kid, and he’d never really figured out the friendship between him and RJ, but according to Marc they were still close. Composed, quietly self-confident, and obviously successful, Marc had been surprised to see Ben, but hadn’t said much, and wouldn’t say anything at all about RJ. He was still quiet, but he’d remembered Ben.
Had RJ kept the secret from Marc as well? It was hard to tell, but he obviously wasn’t comfortable giving out RJ’s information. Not until Ben said he’d come looking for his brother to right some very old wrongs. Marc had studied him for a moment without any comment, nodded, and then he’d written down this address.
And here he was, at a home that was not RJ’s house with a phone number that was also not RJ’s. No, Marc had sent Ben to the girlfriend’s house. His girlfriend’s place where her two roommates also lived. He’d said the girlfriend had some sort of trouble up in wine country, and RJ might still be there with her. Marc wasn’t sure what was going on, but the roommates would know.
Though Ben had asked, Marc wouldn’t give up RJ’s phone number. He said the last thing his friend needed at this point in his life was a cold call from the brother who’d walked out when RJ needed him the most. He had enough on his plate.
But he wouldn’t tell Ben what that might be. And he hadn’t tried to disguise his obvious disapproval of Ben. Which, to be honest, was only fair.
Ben glanced toward the door at the top of the stairs, got out of the car, and locked it with his duffel and laptop inside. It was late for a strange man to be knocking on their door, especially since the porch light wasn’t on, but bright lights glowed through the curtains.
With luck, they’d let him in, or at least answer his questions while he stood on the front steps.
Regardless, he had to find RJ. Had to—somehow—fix what he’d screwed up so long ago.
Copyright © 2016 by Kate Douglas
